Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

I think it’s safe to say that Cher and I are at the pivotal crunch point of our so-called relationship. I’ve broken the fundamental rule of casual, friends-with-benefits arrangements. I’ve gone and caught a few feelings. Against the advice of everyone I know, by the way, including her. Somewhere in Seattle, Brent is clicking his tongue and wondering if this means the end of his job. It’s certainly the end of my sanity.

  You know what the worst thing about her walking out was? How beautiful she was in her self-doubt and confusion. The humanity was on her face. Even from across the room, with my whole body aching from the love we had made, I could see those lines of uncertainty and the clouded look in her eyes. Cher was caught off-guard. Unawares. Wondering how the hell she would face me again should our paths ever cross. This isn’t a woman who is used to falling in love. Neither am I, for that matter. This is uncharted ground for the both of us. That is, if I dare to admit I’m falling in love with the worst woman on Earth.

  Is she, really?

  Logic says that I should watch myself around her. She could still be playing me for a fool. Tonight, she looks over her shoulder and has the face of a woman battling with her heart. Tomorrow, she’s laughing about me to her gal-pals, if she has them. “You won’t believe it. I totally have him wrapped around my finger. Drew! Drew Benton! The guy my ex hired to fuck me over! Now he’s the one eating out of my hand, waiting for me to slap him silly. How long do you think it will take until he asks me to marry him? Tomorrow? A week from now?”

  No, I’m nowhere close to asking her to marry me. I may be foolish at times, but I know better than to propose to a woman I barely know. Let alone one who has a history of running out on guys the moment they pop the question. We’ve established that my father is top-tier trash at doling out advice, but if there’s one thing he told me, it’s that you don’t propose to a woman you can’t foresee yourself growing old with. Good advice, isn’t it? Some guys jump to the altar with the first hot girl who says she loves him, but she’s awful wife material and only gets worse with age. Granted, the guys aren’t much better themselves. I’ve gone to many of these weddings. I’ve also gone to the congrats, you’re divorced! bashes that usually follow two or three years later.

  The next day, I get a call from Brent asking when I’ll be back. I don’t know. Cher won’t respond to the single text I’ve sent her. I should head back to Seattle sooner rather than later, but a part of me stays here in Portland, wondering if she’ll show up again by the evening.

  She doesn’t.

  Finally, I drive to her place late Friday morning. My overnight bag is packed and ready for the drive back up to Seattle, but I’m willing to hang out here if that’s what Cher wants. She could ask me to crawl into her bed and stay there until I waste away, and I might do it.

  Infatuation. Is that what this really is? How badly do I want to behold my raven-haired beauty as she goes about her business, however dirty it may be?

  I buzz her apartment. Like last time, she doesn’t answer. I’m pretty good at guessing which unit might be hears. She’s the type to cling to a reading nook in a bay window overlooking the street below. Ivory pillows with gold stitching adorn one of the nooks on the second floor. A feminine wind-chime hangs in front of the glass. Every time it catches a bit of the sunlight, I imagine Cher sitting beneath it, gazing out at the Northwest Portland goings-on as she either reads a book or holds her phone to her head.

  There are no lights on. No signs of life. She’s not home.

  At least that tells me what I need to know. Go back to Seattle. Figure out what I want to do with my life. If Cher contacts me, great. She can meet me up there again. I’ll pay for her ticket. Maybe we’ll talk things over like mature adults. I’ll lay out what I’m feeling at the ripe old age of thirty, and she can rebut with what a loner she is. It’ll be perfect. A perfect way to reach an impasse that will only end when one of us needs to bail.

  You know, there was something kinda strange about her behavior when I last saw her. While Cher is never forthright about her emotions, she never hesitates to tell me – actually, that’s demand, if we’re being honest – what she wants. It’s one of the hottest things about hooking up with her. How many women will look you in the eye and tell you to call them a filthy slut? I mean, you’re sitting there with your dick hard in your hand like a total jackass, wondering how far you can push the dirty talk. When you’re in the heat of the moment, things get… crazy.

  Crazy enough that you’re making connections that you never thought possible.

  Cher was mute the other night. Although she followed my lead and appeared to enjoy herself, I can’t say she was into it. The more I attempted to engage her with my words or kisses, the more she pulled away from me. Am I really surprised that she ran off when it was over? This was a woman I had asked to be my girlfriend. My declarations for something more concrete between us only made her skittish. Whatever went through her head wasn’t good news for me.

  I think it’s best if I don’t hunt her down. Nor should I be quick to get back to Seattle, where I’ll only stew in everything that upsets me. That’s not how I want to live my life. I’m better off with more distractions.

  Who better to give me something productive to do than my own grandmother? I had promised her I’d stop by soon, anyway. Not sure if she actually wants me there, but I’m not big on leaving her alone for weeks at a time. This is a woman who is getting a bit up there in age. Irene Benton may be perfectly capable of taking care of herself when she’s sound of mind and able in body, but who knows how long that will last? Besides, knowing my luck, she’s lost another chicken and hasn’t bothered to tell me. Probably thinks my work was so shoddy that it’s my fault she’s lost one of her feathered daughters.

  I veer off I5 when I reach Centralia. I’m already alleviated to get the hell away from both Portland and Seattle. This time of year, Eastern Washington is a sight to behold. The mountains are crisp with the very last remnants of snow, assuming it hasn’t all melted yet. The trees are full and green, with wildflowers blooming on the sides of the highway and deer and elk crossing signs giving you a taste of what you might encounter around another curve. The buildings are old, but functional. Occasionally, you see an old, dilapidated barn, but there’s usually a more recent one another mile down the road. Pastures of cows, sheep, and horses are the norm in this part of the country. Your cell reception comes in and out. More in than out. If you don’t get gas now, you’re looking at a 47 mile wait, and the prices will make you laugh until you realize how serious they are.

  This part of the world gets a lot of grief. While it’s true you meet some interesting characters on your travels – some who make you feel safer than others – most of the people out here are all talk and little real interest to ram their hunting rifles up your ass. Or, at least, I’ve never gotten the feeling they’ll make good on their anti-trespassing promises. Sure, that trailer may be cooking meth, and that barn is home to a breed of raccoons you don’t want to ever see, but people are honest. Not like in the city. What you see is what you get. Nobody’s going to pretend to be anyone other than who they are. It’s pretty great, especially if you’re not naturally the most trusting person.

  Liiiike my grandma.

  I still think it’s nuts she’s moved out here all by herself. I don’t care how spry, whip smart, or capable she is. This isn’t the kind of place you come to be an old lady by yourself. I’m going to get a phone call from a nice Eastern Washington sheriff one day who says my grandmother was found in her yard, torn apart by a pack of mountain lions and grizzly bears. Mark my words.

  Until then, I’ll do what I can to prevent that.

  The sun glares through my windshield as I turn off the highway and into her driveway. The little white house at the end of a straight, gravel road doesn’t take form until I’m practically there. It’s a good thing I was finally allowed the gift of sight. I’m not used to there being a car in the spot where I usually park.

  I don’t recognize the black
sedan. The plates are Oregonian. A rental? Who the hell is renting a car in Oregon to come visit my grandmother? Why do I smell her award-winning smoked ribs as soon as I step out of my truck and slam the door in announcement of my arrival?

  “Hey, Gram.” I slowly approach the porch, where my grandmother appears in an old pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that says she didn’t go out today. She leans against one of the posts and cocks a wrinkled hand on her hip. Am I in trouble? Because she’s looking at me like I’m about to have my allowance taken away. Which only happened twice in my youth, thank you. I never made a habit out of smoking after she caught me with a cigarette at fifteen. Nor did I ever again sneak out to see a 21+ concert when I was only seventeen. When your allowance is the size of some parents’ paychecks, you learn how to hold onto them. “What’s going on? Did I drop in at a bad time?” I gesture to the unknown car in the driveway.

  “Actually, you’re right on time for one of my early dinners. Got ribs a’cooking, and we’re in here shelling peas to go on the side. You better get in here and join us so it goes faster. Earn your dinner, while you’re at it.”

  “Us?”

  “Oh, yes.” My grandmother opens her screen door. The front door is already open. “Us.”

  I don’t know how to take this. Am I in trouble? If I am, is it with my grandmother or the unknown guest? I look back at the car again, searching for any identifiable marks. Nothing. No vanity plates. Nothing hanging from the rearview mirror. No dashboard ornaments. Not even a ding in the door that tells me they’re a shitty driver. Is it a man? A woman? If it’s a man, I might be in trouble. But if it’s one of my clients, like Jason Rothchild, then what are they doing driving such a lackluster car? It’s a Honda sedan, not a Mercedes!

  I’m over thinking this. Time to get my ass inside and see what the fuss is about.

  My grandmother leads the way back to her kitchen, where the smell of ribs is the strongest. There, in the center of her round table, is a huge bowl of peas recently taken off the vine. What survived the deer, anyway. I have a faint memory of Gram expecting me to help reinforce the garden fence against deer.

  It’s not the peas we’re shocked by, now is it?

  Because if you’re seeing what I’m seeing, then somebody has a lot of explaining to do. Mostly Cher, who is sitting on the far end of the table, shelling peas like it’s second nature.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Chapter 25

  CHER

  You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Surprised, are you? Sure, once you saw the look on Drew’s face, you probably started putting two and two together. Congratulations! You can do basic, first-grade math. I bet you also read simple sentences and can tell me what an adjective is.

  How about this adjective? Shocked. A great way to describe Drew Benton as he stands in his grandmother’s kitchen, staring at me like I’ve come back from the dead.

  “Hey.” That’s all I say. I’m busy. Shelling peas, or whatever you call what I’m doing. It’s been an hour of me popping open these little green shells and watching peas plop out of them. While I wouldn’t call Drew’s grandma a little old lady, she’s little, old, and definitely a lady. She may wear old clothes, live in this grody house, and cook like she’s afraid of spending money at the supermarket, but my God, you can still smell the Benton on her. She’s wearing Chanel No. 5. The classic, especially if you’re of an older generation.

  By the way, can we address the elephant in the room? No, no, I’m not calling Irene Benton an elephant. Do not take me the wrong way, thanks. (Seriously. Step away from Reddit. Or Tumblr. Or Facebook, I don’t care. I’m not in the mood to be in your daily list of These Bitches Who Seriously Said Shit. I used to have such a list, so I know what I’m talking about. Back. Away.) I expected all sorts of women when I rolled up to her front door for a brief introduction for reasons I’m still attempting to explain. I was prepared for either a scruffy woman in farmer’s clothing, or a well-to-do former socialite who plays at homesteading. Well, I definitely got the scruffy farmer.

  I thought, you know… she would be white?

  Look! I’m in Eastern Washington, not exactly known for its racial diversity. And the Bentons are well, shall we say, old-fashioned. Things may change over the generations, but I didn’t peg Drew’s grandfather as someone “progressive” enough to openly marry a black woman instead of keeping her as a secret lover. Then again, having hung around Irene for about three hours now, I get the feeling she’s not someone’s dirty little secret. She would never in a million years let things stay that way. Either Drew’s grandfather married her, or they separated.

  I get her appeal. She speaks her mind and is handy around the house. If I were Drew’s grandfather and looking for a new wife, I might be inclined to tell my country club friends to kindly withdraw the sticks from their asses and then promptly beat them with said sticks. They would kind of deserve it, yes?

  “Uh…” Drew still has his keys in his hand. He looks between his grandmother and me. I go back to shelling peas. Irene hops into the kitchen and checks on her ribs. Oh, you can still smell them? My olfactory fatigue settled in an hour ago. All I smell is the regret simmering deep in my heart. And the lust I’m probably building from looking at Drew Benton in his tight flannel and tighter jeans. Should I tell him off for wearing such compressing pants? Or should I let his grandmother have the honors? I bet we’re similar in the ways we love to verbally beat up the men in our lives. “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on here?” he continues to ask.

  Since Irene is busy in the kitchen, I’m left to do the honors.

  Hm. What should I tell him?

  I guess I can tell you the truth. Or what there is of it. There really isn’t much to say, if I’m being 100% honest. I spent most of yesterday feeling like a fool for going as far as I have with Drew. My mind remains a cloud of unrest, every drop of precipitation threatening to fall from it only compounded by the lightning stirring in my gut. Lest you think that’s a statement about the food I eat, let me assure you – I listen to my gut a lot. When it starts stirring, let alone inviting electrical storms into my life, I take heed. Usually you run for cover in a crazy electrical storm, right? It’s the same in this situation. Pardon me if I’m a bit frank when I say I’d rather shit lightning than get struck by it.

  Guess that’s a convoluted way to say I couldn’t help but look into what kind of man Drew is. I mean, anyone can hire a private investigator to dig up the dirty stuff. I could find some of his friends and get their biased opinions. Yet I remembered an off-handed comment he made more than once. One about his own grandmother who currently resides in this town (technically) in Eastern Washington. If the silence in our conversations were too much, Drew would change subjects to his grandmother, the little-known Irene Benton. She was only married to Drew’s grandfather for a few years. Very few pictures, or at least I didn’t see any when I went looking. I was able to dig up her address based on the info he leaked, however.

  What possessed me to rent a car and come here, however? Not sure. Too much to drink, maybe. The need to get out of Portland. To drive for the first time in months. To put as much distance between myself and Drew as I feasibly could at such short notice.

  I had to know, I guess. I wanted to know what kind of grandmother had him coming around to take care of her all the time. I needed to see who had temporarily raised him when he was a boy. I wanted her damning opinions of his worst traits and to hear what she thought was a decent case for his character.

  You can imagine her reaction when I showed up at her door. When I told this stranger that I was dating her grandson and needed some advice, she didn’t ask any questions. Just opened her doors and motioned for me to come inside, like she had expected me all along. Maybe she has. Maybe she’s been waiting for Drew to set aside his playboy ways long enough for a woman like me to appear and change his life.

  Yeah, no. I’m not mantling that moniker anytime soon. But I can’t lie. These past few ho
urs have been interesting. While I didn’t tell Irene the whole details about how we met, I did tell her that he and I had the kind of volatile dating histories that made it difficult to trust one another. He thinks I’m a sugar-baby sponging off his money. When I said that, Irene nodded over her bowl of peas, as if she agreed that’s what I looked like. Yet when I followed that up with, “I have no reason to believe he’s not a total dick working me too,” she continued to nod. She agreed that we both suck.

  Now here we are. I’ve been telling her a little about myself, mostly some of my dating history and what I like to do, while she throws in the random comment about herself or relates it back to her grandson. Drew showed up not too far into a story about Jason Rothchild and how I turned down his proposal last Christmas. Irene was halfway through saying, “Typical man, putting you on the spot like that,” when she heard Drew’s truck coming down the driveway. I’ve been steeling myself since.

  “Thought I’d meet your grandma.” That’s all I say as I finish this small stack of peas. Irene comes back to fetch the bowl, rinse the peas, and add them to whatever she’s cooking as a side dish. I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m not really into peas. “You told me such interesting things about her.”

  His mouth drops. “I didn’t tell you anything about her!”

  “No kidding.” Irene has her back to me. I raise my eyebrows at her grandson, and he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he mouths.

  I shrug. Can he blame me for being surprised? This is the Pacific Northwest. People don’t expect rich white boys to have black homesteading grandmas. Least of all me. I can’t think of a single ex of mine who did except, you know, the ones who were black themselves.

  “She’s surprised I’m black, Drew!”

  I almost spit out the pea I’ve snuck into my mouth. Drew puts his hands on his hips, exasperated. “What has she been telling you about me, huh?” he shouts into the kitchen. “She tell you I’m trouble?”